To top off all of the magic going on in my life right now (complete sarcasm), I’ve been having the dreams again. The ones where I wake up and I’m back in the hospital and everything else was a dream. I’m weak and I’m dying and that stupid clock is half a tick off.
Let me explain something to you. The only thing worse than a clock that is a whole tick off, is a clock that is half a tick off. The second hand moves and the ‘tick’ resounds a little too late as the hand strikes close to, but never on, its target. It’s the largest, most meaningless mockery of anyone who has realized how slowly a day is passing.
But in the dream, there’s no one in the room keeping me safe or watching over me. That’s what should give me the first hint that it’s not real, but for some reason it just give it a weird, post-apocalyptic touch. My first instinct is to get up, to scream for help, and to bash in that clock that is half of a tick off.
I can’t move because I am too weak and there is so much pain in my body. I can’t think straight because of the Morphine being pumped into me via IV. I can’t talk or scream or move too much because there is a ventilator shoved down my throat. And I am alone with my thoughts and a clock that is half a tick off.
To make matters worse – if that’s possible – when I finally do manage to rouse myself from my nightmare, I awaken gasping for air with ghost pain screaming down my side, body shaking, and a dreadful ‘tick-tick’ sound in my head from that fucking clock.
I told one of my friends about these dreams last night and he tried to help me, but it’s been over two years since they started and I’ve kind of tried everything short of Therapy. I don’t want to sleep. I don’t want to go back there; into that hospital bed. Maybe I’m cracked or torn around the edges. Maybe I’m over-used somehow. Or maybe I’m a bit like that clock that is burned into my retinas as I try desperately not to sleep again.
Maybe I’m half a tick off.